


Throw It Away Like a Boomerang

by LittleLostPieces



Series: Hand in My Pocket/Head in the Clouds [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostPieces/pseuds/LittleLostPieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has to be this way.  Louis knows he's gotten as much slack as he's going to be allowed right now and he shouldn't push it.  It's just that Harry hates pretending when they're seen at the same parties or clubs, acting as though they're just mates, refusing to call this a relationship since they can only be an actual couple in front of approximately twelve people.  It's never been a problem before, but Louis has never kept any of the other guys he's pulled long enough to care if they're bothered by the arrangement or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throw It Away Like a Boomerang

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second in the 'Hand in My Pocket/Head in the Clouds' series, wherein Harry is an indie singer/songwriter and Louis is 1/4 of One Direction. 
> 
> Title comes from Pink's _Timebomb_ , which is sort of the theme tune for this story.

“Jesus.”

Louis turns from the mirror in his dressing room, hand hovering just above the left side of his stupidly-cemented hair, and smirks. “Just Louis' fine,” he says.

Harry shakes his head as he comes into the room and rests his hands on Louis' hips. “It's a good thing Zayn's not here right now. I'm afraid the mere scent of cigarettes might ignite that thing,” he teases, raising one palm to press the top of Louis' quiff.

“Don't,” Louis warns, ducking away from Harry's touch with narrowed eyes. “I'm pretty sure Lou will have your balls if you mess it up,” he adds, giving Harry's body a long, appreciative once-over. “And I quite like your balls, so back off, Curly.”

Shaking his head, Harry leans against the vanity and crosses his arms over his broad chest. His eyes do a blatant sweep of Louis, head to toe and back up to his crotch before he licks his lips and allows a lazy smile to spread across his face. “My sexy little film star,” he finally says, laughing at the way Louis swats at his shoulder, flinging one arm out in the process to hook Louis' hips and pull him in to Harry's side.

If he's honest, Louis' not really fighting it.

This is the first time he's seen Harry in weeks, the first time they've been back in London since launching their world tour in this very arena. It's the first show Harry's been to and it's the first one that they're filming specifically for the documentary that the band will release later in the summer. There are a lot of reasons for Louis to be happy at the moment.

There are also what seems to be about a million people wandering the halls outside this changing room - the one that was immediately commandeered for hair and makeup with the insistence that it had the best lighting and _energy_ \- but Louis can't be bothered to worry about anyone else when Harry leans his head forward to press a quick kiss to Louis' chin. If he gets a bit of a thrill from knowing that most people have no idea what's happening beyond these walls, he's certainly not going to admit that right now.

“The first time I saw you, at that awards show a couple of years ago,” Harry says, his voice dropping to a low grumble against Louis' ear, “your hair looked almost just like this.”

Louis pulls back enough to take in the entirety of Harry's face. He blinks twice and says, “That was the first time you'd seen me?” He honestly can't even remember the first time he saw Harry. It seems like it must have been a lifetime ago.

“In person,” Harry nods, his fingers doing sinfully tantalizing things to the skin at the base of Louis' spine. “Couldn't stop staring at the back of your head.”

This is not the first time Louis has wondered how something sounds in Harry's head before the words make their way out of his mouth. He imagines it's something like a rom-com, sweet and smart and witty, when in reality it's usually completely awful. 

His laughter bursts like gunfire between them, more raucous than it should be if they're trying to be covert here. “That's your line?” he asks, resting one hand on Harry's cheek when Harry's brow begins to furrow in defense. “The back of my _head_? That's sexy to you?”

“I'll remember this,” Harry warns, though he's smiling in that way that he only ever does when he's alone with Louis, in that way that Louis likes to think is only his. “Next time I consider slagging off my own album to come support your career, I'll remember this moment.”

“Will you?” Louis asks, leaning in until his chest is pressed tightly to Harry's, until he feels Harry's thumb hook into the belt loop at the back of Louis' jeans. His voice drops to something far more private and controlled when he asks, “And what will you do about it, Harry? Huh? You'll come anyway, won't you?”

Harry rolls his eyes, trying valiantly to slip into his unaffected, indie rock star persona and failing miserably, much to Louis' delight. 

“I will not,” he insists with a shake of his head, one that barely moves his hair now that he's had it cut far too short for Louis' liking. “I'll stay back and write a song called _Why am I the idiot who fucks boys who do nothing but mock me when I'm trying to be supportive? Oh yeah, because I'm easily distracted by a tight ass in tighter jeans_. It'll top the charts, thank you very much.”

Louis slides his fingers into the curls Harry has left at the base of his skull, and knows that he's smiling like a damn fool. He just can't seem to find a fuck to give at the moment. “It's gotta be better than that one about hoola hooping naked in the kitchen. What did you call that one again?”

Head falling back, the long line of his tanned throat exposed in a way that should absolutely not have Louis' pants taking interest, Harry groans and then allows himself to laugh. “It was called _Hoola Hooping Naked in the Kitchen_ and I was drunk, you twat. Also, I wrote that just for you, so all of this mockery hurts a bit,” is his only defense for the hilarious atrocity he tried to call a song after a long night of tequila and watching Louis' bandmates fighting over video game controllers back before the tour started.

In lieu of admitting that he still remembers every lyric Harry sang whilst half of his body was dangling off of Louis' couch that night, he slings his other arm around Harry's neck and kisses him like he's wanted to do since they arrived back in London a few hours ago. More accurately, like he's wanted to do since they rolled out of London six weeks ago.

Harry tightens his hold on Louis' waist, both arms squeezing like a vice as he licks his way into Louis' mouth like a whispered promise of where this night is going to end in a few hours. 

They're interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, one that has Louis jumping back and Harry dropping his head with a sigh. 

When Niall pops his head into the room, looks from Louis to Harry and back again, and then says, “If ya want to avoid a lecture, this is your fair warning,” before he's gone again, his cackling laughter echoing down the corridor above the sounds of the others milling about.

Louis turns his attention back to Harry, fully intent on apologizing for the interruption, to steal another kiss or twelve before he has to put his public face back on and pretend he wasn't making out with Harry Styles in the changing rooms, but Harry is already pushing off the edge of the vanity. 

He smiles and waves from the door, says, “Break a leg, yeah?” like he did that first time they spoke, as if they're still casual acquaintances.

It has to be this way. Louis knows he's gotten as much slack as he's going to be allowed right now – more than he thought they would, thanks in no small part to Harry's song flinging them to the top of the singles and albums charts the week after their record's release – and he shouldn't push it. It's just that Harry hates pretending when they're seen at the same parties or clubs, acting as though they're just mates, refusing to call this a relationship since they can only be an actual couple in front of approximately twelve people. It's never been a problem before, but he's never cared to keep any of the other guys he's pulled around long enough to care if they're bothered by the arrangement or not.

Long after Harry and Ed wish them all luck and head over to their seats at the side of the stage, Louis is still trying to shake the weird feeling that settled low in his stomach back in the changing room. It's been seven months since they started whatever this is, six weeks since they've seen each other, and Harry is still here. He's still hanging out, smiling wide and genuine when Louis catches his eye, pulling stupid faces and doing ridiculous dances to the music the support act is playing on the stage right now.

“You alright?” Liam asks, startling Louis until he laughs at his own stupidity.

There are twenty thousand reasons for him to shake this off and make this the best show of the tour thus far. There are absolutely zero reasons to doubt that everything is going to be just fine. 

Nodding with as much confidence as he can muster, he leaps onto Liam's back, presses a wet kiss to his cheek, and lets out a loud whoop that resonates off of the walls and almost sounds genuine when it echoes back to him.

*

The next five days are good, easy even. Like a honeymoon in some paradise locale, Louis' bed is their island resort, a retreat from everything else, where they play and explore until their bodies are exhausted, until they only have the energy to make completely banal conversation that lasts until the sun begins to rise. There are no publicists or managers or agents or lawyers, no confidentially clauses or any of the other worrisome trappings perpetually tacked onto Louis' sex life these days.

A few fans – more than a few, if he's being honest – speculate on his Twitter timeline as to why neither of them have been seen around town, either together or apart, but it's hard to care past the press of Harry's body against his in this room, the sound of his voice through his whispered gasps and throaty moans and pleased chuckles into Louis' skin.

When Zayn calls him on day three, when he begins playing Maroon 5's _Never Wanna Leave this Bed_ so loudly that even Harry can hear it, Louis just laughs, calls him an insufferable twat, and tosses his phone onto the floor. It gets lost somewhere under his bed and Louis could not care any less if he tried.

*

The sixth day, the final day, kind of sucks. Louis has to drag himself from the bed in order to pack and Harry sits around, completely naked, writing songs with the dirtiest lyrics of all time in order to distract him. It should make him laugh, possibly roll his eyes and groan, but all it really does is inspire this stupid fondness that clogs Louis' throat like a tennis ball. 

When Harry finally runs out of filth, when he finally succumbs to rhyming the one thing Louis' been expecting all day - _His name is Louis and his bum always takes my erection in one fucking direction_ \- he gives up on packing and figures he can throw something in his bags on the way out the door in the morning. It's important to prioritize.

*

There have been approximately ten thousand times in the last couple of years that Louis has thought he should pinch himself just to make sure that he's not dreaming this life of his into existence. Every single one of them is followed directly by a thought that, if he is indeed dreaming, he'd rather not wake up, thanks. 

“There's this restaurant we should definitely hit up, too,” Harry is saying, his face flushed red and his hair sweat-matted to his forehead as he blinks toward Louis' bedroom ceiling. “It's cool, they know me. They'll set it up so we can have some privacy in the back and we won't have to worry about, like, being photographed or whatever.”

Louis' fingers trail idly over Harry's belly, dipping into the valleys between his muscles, teasing along the ridge of his hipbones. He hums and entertains the thought of pinching himself once again.

This time, he absolutely does not want to know if this boy, this moment, this entire situation is only inside his own head.

“That sounds really lovely,” he mutters against Harry's collarbone, turning his face just enough to see one of Harry's eyes beyond the cut of his jaw. 

He definitely does not think about the fact that he has to leave in less than three hours now.

“And, like, I don't know what you're schedule looks like, but if you have the time, we could visit my mum for a night or something maybe.”

The normally brash and confident hipster kid, the one who's too cool for virtually every room he steps into, is blushing beneath Louis' cheek and, frankly, it's more than Louis can handle in his current state.

He leans forward, bites softly against Harry's jaw, and nods. “I'd love that,” he whispers, huffing a surprised laugh when Harry twists to capture his lips in a quick kiss. 

It's hard not to over-analyze the offer, not to think that maybe it's Harry's way of saying he's ready to admit this is more than just fucking around when they have the time. It's hard not to think that meeting Harry's family has to mean _something_ , but Louis does his best to avoid actually asking the question out loud.

“I know you won't be able to stay the night,” Harry says suddenly, his fingers scratching against the back of Louis' head, a post-coital ritual that Louis has come to enjoy more than he's willing to admit. “I just want enough time to say hi to my mum and fuck you in my old bed.”

Louis barks a laugh that shatters the still bubble they've been trapped inside for the last twenty minutes, quietly discussing Harry's plans to visit after the final show of the tour in Manchester. He may not be the funniest person Louis has ever met but he has a talent for juxtaposing the inappropriate and the completely random that always catches Louis off-guard.

Besides, it's easier to roll onto his side, to climb over Harry and smile down at him until Harry's eyes sparkle with the same amusement, to appreciate what he has here in his bed right now, than it is to think about all the things Louis wants and still can't have.

*

It's not a relationship, Louis reminds himself repeatedly. It makes it easier to think of Harry, with his _I'm too cool to give a shit_ exterior and his boisterous, illuminating grin, when Louis is away from him. He's beautiful and charming and awesome, but he tells himself that those things are shallow, surface crush stuff, not an actual relationship.

It also makes it easier to swallow the fact that Harry hasn't called in more than a week, hasn't returned a text message in twenty-eight hours. If they were in a relationship, Louis would be angry, but they're not. It's fine.

It's really fine that, according to the papers this morning, Harry is in Los Angeles right now. It's also fine that Louis saw the photographs on Tumblr this morning, had a few of them tweeted to him, as well. So Harry skipped the entire country, not just Louis' final show in Manchester and all of the plans they had following it, without a single word. It's not irritating if Louis just remembers that it's not a relationship.

 _Going for drinks with the lads, unless you managed to make it back into the country and still want to hang out like we talked about for the last month._ The text could be construed as slightly passive aggressive, maybe even desperate, by someone who does not understand the subtle dynamics of their non-relationship. 

Zayn spends the entire night calling Harry a stupid little fuck. Liam won't stop hugging Louis with one arm, assuring him that he's going to find someone who can fully support his dreams. Niall just punches him in the arm and tells him to stop being a sop and have another pint. Niall might just be his favorite.

Harry doesn't respond to the text, but Louis is pissed enough by the end of the night that he can pretend he doesn't care because they are not in a relationship.

*

The thing is, Louis knew this tour was going to change things. He knew that Harry wasn't going to be able to show up in every random city to visit, knew that there wouldn't be enough time to spend hours talking every night. Distance is an unavoidable test to any kind of relationship, especially when the distance only increases over time, but Louis had let himself hope that it was a test they would pass.

He didn't allow himself to plan for Harry giving up before the exam was half-finished, but when the bus eases to a stop back in London, he wishes that he'd thought ahead a little further. 

By the time he arrives home, all Louis really wants is to lock the doors and sleep for the entirety of their ten-day break. He doesn't have to think or feel when he's sleeping.

That, of course, means that Harry is waiting on his front stoop, squinting against Louis' high beams until the car comes to a stop. He continues waiting, sitting with his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped between his knees, for the full two minutes that Louis cycles through his emotions after he's killed the engine.

He's angry, wants to dart out of the car and demand Harry explain himself, explain what happened seemingly over night. He's hurt, feeling like he's been easily abandoned, as though he actually means nothing. He's uncertain, afraid that showing how deeply Harry's absence has affected him will let Harry see how much he means to Louis when he clearly doesn't feel the same. He's relieved, a spark of hope igniting at the possibility that Harry coming to find him actually means something. 

But most of all, Louis is tired. So when he finally steps out of the car, fumbles with his keys a bit, and then starts for the house, he doesn't bother pretending that it's fine, that this isn't anything and it doesn't bother him. He doesn't bother yelling or hurling accusations.

He simply asks, “How was LA?” as he brushes past Harry on his way to the door.

Harry grunts as he stands, tucking his hands into his pockets. “It was kind of last minute,” he answers as he crosses the threshold into Louis' entry, his fingers brushing over the marble statue by the door just like they always do. “I know this guy out there who was having a party-,”

“I don't actually care, Harry,” Louis interrupts, anxiety rising in his gut, bubbling into his throat. “I'm too tired for much of anything right now, if I'm honest, so if you'd like to see yourself out.” When Harry ignores him, instead crossing to the lounge and standing near the fireplace, hands fidgeting in the hem of his tee shirt as though he's not sure what to do with them, Louis mutters, “That's not exactly leaving, is it?”

Spinning on his heels, Harry lets out a heavy sigh and grabs the top of his beanie with both hands. “I don't fucking know how to do this,” he finally says.

If he just focuses on staying upright, on keeping his feet planted on the floor and not crumpling into a heap, Louis thinks he might manage to keep from completely humiliating himself for the moment. His jaw aches from clenching when he says, “There's nothing to do. It's not as though we ever defined this thing as anything at all, so if you want out, just go. It doesn't have to be a dramatic ordeal. It's a bonus of not being in a real relationship, I think. We don't actually need to break up.”

Harry probably wouldn't look as stricken if Louis had actually punched him. Mouth agape, he stares and blinks, his footing giving way a bit as he reaches for the arm of the couch for support. “Okay, that's a lot to process all at once.” He licks his lips, shakes his head, and smiles painfully. “Is this not a real relationship, Lou?”

Louis' heart hammers against his ribs, anger flushing hot in his cheeks, defenses shooting high. “Of course it is, idiot,” he says, voice going too high and slightly hysterical. He regrets the admission immediately.

For a brief moment, Harry's smile brightens and then dims almost as quickly. He sits fully on the arm of the couch and crosses his long arms over his chest, gripping at his own biceps as though he's trying to hug himself for assurance. 

“My new album is absolute shit,” he finally says.

“Christ, Harry, what the hell does this have to do with anything?”

Though Louis has grown accustomed to Harry's random thoughts, he's really not in the mood to deal with them right now. The sooner he gets to the point, the sooner he'll leave and Louis can curl up in his bed with ice cream and his heartbreak and his humiliating tears.

“I'm trying to tell you. I'm just. I've never been good with, like, actual words unless I'm writing them into a song. Nobody could ever figure out what the hell I was trying to say until I started to say it with a melody and a few dirty words. It was never supposed to be that way. It just kind of happened,” he stops long enough to huff a sardonic chuckle, shaking his head again, and then looking around like he can't figure out where to focus. “The new stuff that I started writing was different, I guess. It was still honest, but there was a noticeable lack of misery.” He finally looks Louis in the eye, smiling genuinely for the first time since Louis got home. “My label fucking hated it.”

While Louis has no doubt Harry is making his way toward an explanation or apology of some sort, he's well past patience. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a knob, but can you please just get to the point, Harry?”

Harry blinks and then outright laughs. “Everything I've tried to write sounds too rude or too fake and it is all absolute rubbish. On top of that, I got told off for being so far behind schedule so I thought some distance would make it easier to write.”

“And it never occurred to you to maybe tell me that?” Louis snaps.

“Of course it did!” Harry straightens a bit, his arms flailing in frustration. “And you would have been great about it, mature and sweet and wonderful like you always are. Everything would still be fine and then I'd been right back where I started!”

Louis opens his mouth to speak and then snaps it shut again, his head shaking as though that might clear some of Harry's meaning in his mind. “Are you telling me that you've kept me on edge for a fucking week so you could write a couple of songs about it? Is that what you're saying?”

Harry looks surprised by the reaction, as though he was expecting Louis to open his arms and forgive this abominably stupid plan of his. “Yes?” he asks, sheepish as he deflates against the couch once more.

For a kid who is a billion feet tall and impossibly broad, Harry has this way of looking as scared and vulnerable as a four-year-old. It normally melts Louis into a pile within a few seconds, but circumstances are a bit different tonight. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he explodes, taking a few steps forward as his tone escalates. “Do what you have to do for your own music, but you can't just manipulate me like that. I'm your boyfriend, not your fucking muse.”

“I know,” Harry answers, barely audible above the pounding in Louis' ears. 

While there are a million other things Louis could shout right now, he's exhausted and hurt and terrified of how it will come out. Instead, he steps back and motions toward the door, shifting his focus from Harry's broken expression to the floor. “Can you please just go?”

“Okay,” Harry agrees easily, pushing off of the couch and stuffing his hands into his pockets. At the door, he turns and says, “I'll call you.”

Louis can feel himself nodding but most of his energy is focused on not collapsing into a heap on the floor. Once he hears the door click shut, he rests one hand on his chest, feels the racing of his heart, and curses the day stupid Harry Styles acknowledged his existence. It was so much easier when this was not a relationship.

*

Zayn shows up at ten the next morning – a miracle in itself – with enough alcohol to kill a fraternity. By four, they've consumed most of it whilst Zayn waxes poetic on the many ways to murder someone and make it look like an accident or properly dispose of the body so no one will ever find it. Since Louis' too drunk to work a toaster or drive to Scotland, he settles for passing out a few minutes past five.

*

When he wakes up again, Liam is watching cartoons on Louis' bedroom telly, munching on popcorn and singing _You've Got a Friend in Me_. Louis appreciates the gesture, but the pounding jackhammer in his head does not so he gracelessly kicks Liam out and tells him not to come back until he can do it without a smile. He figures that, under these conditions, he won't see Liam again until they arrive in Paris nine days from now.

*

Hair of the dog, he thinks, gripping one of the whiskey bottles Zayn left behind as he wanders aimlessly from one end of his house to the other a couple of days later. He tells himself that he's looking for something – he'll know what he is when he finds it, shut up – but he's mostly trying to stay awake until he's drunk enough to fall back into a dreamless sleep.

Harry is an infection. He slipped under Louis' skin when Louis wasn't paying attention and he spread into every part of Louis' brain, his life. He tells himself that it hasn't been long enough, that they haven't spent enough time together, that he shouldn't be so torn up right now, but none of his words stop it from actually happening.

Is he making too big of a deal out of nothing? Is he being too irrational, too emotional, too ridiculous? Is refusing to answer Harry's phone calls in an effort to make him feel exactly what Louis felt when Harry was ignoring him a little bit childish and petty? Is Harry actually dumb enough to think that Louis is just going to get over this?

He's stumbling toward the kitchen, looking for a sandwich to soak up some of the alcohol floating his liver up into his stomach, when the front door bangs open. Louis jumps, terror jolting him into a semi-sobriety that is just not acceptable.

“Put the bottle down and get your trainers on,” is Niall's opening line. He's tossing a football from one hand to the other as though he was invited to do so in Louis' entry. 

“Not now, Niall,” Louis slurs with as much authority as he can muster. 

Niall just rolls his eyes, crossing to Louis and stealing the bottle from his hand, carrying it to the kitchen as he shouts over his shoulder, “C'mon. Let's get some air in ya.”

Niall won't leave until he gets his way. When Louis heaves a sigh and loses his balance in the process, he figures it's probably for the best that he doesn't. He wants to insist that he's not exactly a danger to himself, that he doesn't need constant supervision, but Niall will just tell him to shut up and do whatever he wants anyway.

*

They mess about in the back garden until Louis can hardly breathe, until he collapses and greedily takes the bottle of water Niall offers a few hours later. His hair is plastered to his face, his tee shirt soaked and useless in a pile at his side. 

Niall sits close by, knees up and eyes focused on the horizon. He says nothing, bobbing his head to some tune inside his own brain. Sometimes Louis envies the way virtually everything rolls right off of that lad as though it means nothing.

“You wanna talk about it?” Niall finally asks when they've shared the silence for what seems like an eternity.

“Don't see how it'll much help,” Louis responds automatically.

Nodding, Niall takes another long swig from his water and continues to stare into the distance.

“I mean, I'm not wrong, am I? What he did was shit. That's not how you treat someone you supposedly love, is it?”

“I don't know, Lou,” Niall says suddenly, his shoulder shrugging as he turns his attention back to Louis. “They don't teach you how to be in love in school, do they? And I've never been, myself, so I don't know how you're meant to act, really. Sure, I sing plenty of songs about it, but that don't mean anything.”

Louis huffs. “You don't need a school lesson to know you're not supposed to be a dick who fucks with other people's emotions, Niall.”

“I reckon you don't,” Niall concedes with a shrug. “Maybe you need some personal experience, though?” When Louis doesn't budge as easily, Niall shakes his head and hops to his feet. “I don't know what the answer is, but I do know you and you're gonna make yourself crazy bottlin' it all up like you do. So either take him back and get over it or don't and get over it. Waitin’ it out only makes him miserable and you drunk, and I love ya but you are not a fun drunk.”

He leaves Louis alone with his thoughts, alone with this idea that it is, indeed, just as easy as getting over it and moving forward.

*

The righteous indignation that fuels Louis’ anger simmers and fades along with his hangover the next day but, because his pride stands taller than he does, he’s not ready to figure out what comes after that. Before he can do something stupid, like check Twitter or spend hours Googling Harry, he makes an appointment with his tattoo artist and drags Zayn along with him.

“Are you sure?” Zayn asks.

Rolling his eyes as he pushes his fringe away from his eyes, Louis throws his hoodie toward Zayn’s face and settles comfortably into the leather chair. 

“Do you honestly think that the answer has changed in the last three minutes, Zayn?” 

“But it’s,” Zayn stops himself and shakes his head as the artist begins to the press the stencil, the giant stag head stencil, onto Louis’ arm, “it’s really big,” he finally says.

Louis winks. “That’s what she said.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, but that’s not what makes Louis regret the words instantly. While Louis has always prided himself on finding the rudest interpretation of any innocent phrase, that joke only reminds him of Harry now. 

“It’s your body, I suppose,” Zayn finally relents, flopping onto a nearby chair and producing a battered paperback from his jacket. “Why don’t you add a fish around your elbow there?” he adds, looking up as the needle begins to buzz. “Nothing screams Tommo like a full sleeve of random wildlife.” 

Choosing to believe that the way he’s muttering the words means Zayn is mostly talking to himself, Louis lets his eyes drift shut and surrenders himself to the feeling of the needle. He doesn’t need Zayn’s understanding or approval. He doesn’t need to explain it to anyone. Maybe he just likes how they look, or maybe they do mean something, but that’s Louis’ business. Harry always has this weird compulsion to explain his to everyone who asks. 

Harry. Right. The Harry he’s not thinking about right now. The one he’s purposely here to avoid thinking about. The one who would have the decency not to ask him twenty times if he was sure he wanted a giant deer tattooed on his bicep because Harry has a giant ship on his and has never bothered telling Louis why because Louis has the decency not to ask him first. 

Harry, the one he would desperately like to hate at the moment because it would be so much easier than missing him.

*

With four days to go before Louis leaves for Paris, Harry sends him an audio file. There is no explanation, no message or note, no request for Louis to respond. He draws the curtains in his room, stuffs his headphones on, and flops back onto his bed before opening the file.

It’s not just a song. It’s three songs, Harry randomly talks about his day and what he’s been up to in between each one, and they’re fantastic. Louis feels the tears coming before the first is finished and he doesn’t bother fighting them. There’s no one else here anyway.

One of the lines in the second verse of the last song stops Louis’ breath in his chest.

 _The only thing I know for sure is that I don't know how to do this anymore_. 

It resonates in his memory, the same words Harry whispered that night in the entry. Louis had assumed he meant he didn’t know how to break up or even explain his actions. The song isn’t about that at all, but about Harry having no idea how one is meant to be in love. It talks about stumbling and falling and there are metaphors and turns of phrase that make Louis simultaneously proud and jealous of Harry’s talent. It speaks only of apology, not forgiveness, as if Harry is saying that he is only one part of the equation.

Louis listens to the entire thing four more times, three to hear the sound of Harry’s voice so close to his ears again, and once to appreciate how fucking good the songs actually are on their own.

As the file repeats for the fifth time, Louis climbs off of his bed and grabs a beanie from the floor. He’s almost running by the time he gets to the front door, throws it open, and nearly slams directly into Liam’s chest.

To his credit, Liam is heeding Louis’ earlier warning; he is absolutely not smiling.

In fact, Liam doing a damn good job of reminding Louis why he’s the one person Louis never, ever wants to anger unexpectedly.

“Hello, Liam,” he says, loads of fake cheer dripping sarcastically from his words. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

“Tell me again why Harry ignored you,” Liam demands in lieu of any proper greeting. “You said that he was feeling pressure from his record label to make a better album, didn’t you?”

Louis nods, all of his resolve from the last couple of hours dropping into his toes. “Why? Liam, what’s going on?”

Stalking the entry like a caged tiger, Liam doesn’t bother looking up from his feet as he visibly seethes. “I had lunch with him yesterday.”

“Did you?” There might be a hint of accusation in Louis’ words but he doesn’t actually care. Harry is not band property. If Louis isn’t having lunch with him then there is no reason for any of his bandmates to be having lunch with him.

“Yes, I did. And don't look at me like that. I'm allowed to eat with whomever I please.” Stopping, he crosses his arms and says, “I think he lied to you. I don't actually have all of the details, but I've been trying to piece together some strange things that just don't add up and all I can figure is that he's lied about something, somewhere along the way.”

Louis schools his expression, tries his best to appear cool and detached even though Liam is sure to see right through it. “Would you care to elaborate?” 

“Alright, but like I said, I don't have all the details, so I don't know if this is actually what's happening.” He looks around and decides that the couch would be the best place for this conversation. “You're probably going to want to sit down for this.”

*

By the time he arrives at Harry's flat, Louis' heart is about to beat a hole through his ribcage. He's quite certain he has never been so confused in his entire life, his hands shaking and his teeth chattering as he struggles to keep from exploding the second Harry opens the door.

Almost as if he was expecting Louis to arrive, Harry answers immediately, standing back and offering him a beer before leading the way into the lounge.

“So you've spoken to Liam,” he says.

Oh, Louis has spoken to Liam. Or, more accurately, Liam has spoken to Louis. To be fair, Louis didn't say much before storming out of the house and making his way over here.

At lunch yesterday, Harry kept referring to a delicate balance and trying too hard to please too many people. He didn't elaborate, but when Liam spoke to Danielle about it last night – Louis will save the conversation about Liam discussing Louis' personal life with his girlfriend for another day because, well, he has priorities here – she said that she was recently working with another artist from Harry's label who mentioned that the execs there were worried about Harry's suddenly erratic behavior. They allegedly _loved_ his new album, couldn't have been more thrilled with the outcome, and were extremely concerned when he announced, a week after it's completion, that it was shit and he was starting over from scratch.

Louis only knows that Liam doesn't lie and that something strange is afoot. He's not leaving until he knows exactly what that something is.

“What is going on?” Louis asks, arms crossed over his chest to keep them from flailing about desperately. “Harry, you tell me that the label hated your record, but Liam tells me that they loved it. You tell me you don't want to be soppy, but you send me the most beautiful love songs. What the hell is going on?”

Harry has the decency to hang his head when he says, “The night I came to see you at the O2, someone from your team approached me backstage, said we needed to talk privately. I was quite firmly reminded that your image is meant to be sexually ambiguous and that, if you're not dating a woman, then it is in your best professional interest to remain unattached to anyone at all.”

“What?”

Louis can feel his mouth hanging open, but he can't seem to command it into a closed position, no matter how hard he tries.

“It wasn't anything I didn't already know, Lou. I mean, you told me that from the beginning, so I just told him that I didn't know what he was referring to but that I was there to see the band that I wrote for, that I wanted to hear how my song sounded on stage and that was it.” Harry shakes his head, smiles a little, and finally meets Louis' eye. “I mean, it was pretty obvious that I was lying through my teeth, I know, but I wanted him to see that I wasn't going to admit to anything to him privately, so maybe he would believe that I wasn't going to admit to anything to anyone else publicly. I don't know. It made sense in my head at the time.”

Louis nods, wishing to hell that he could make himself do anything else. It's hardly a stretch – management has these talks with Louis himself on a near-weekly basis – but he wants so desperately to believe that it was a misunderstanding, that Harry misheard or something. He'd like to believe that the people in charge of his career, the people who have basically pulled every string and helped him climb through ever window of opportunity, aren't actively trying to smother the greatest thing that's happened to him since he signed a record deal in the first place. He'd also like to believe that the boy he's ass-over-tea-kettle in love with hasn't been lying to his face for more than a month.

“I should have blown it off or whatever. I know I should have, but when the album was done and I was listening back to it, every single goddamn song was about you. They weren't all love songs, weren't even all sex songs, but I've been falling for you this entire time and it was so fucking obvious when I listened to the finished record. I missed you and I kept hearing him say that word over and over in my head and, fuck, Lou,” Harry stops and pushes his hair away from his face, “I couldn't risk somehow destroying your career, yours _and_ the other lads', so I scrapped the entire thing and tried to start over. You already know the rest from there.”

Blinking, Louis asks, “What word?”

Harry just blinks back. “What?”

“You said you kept hearing him say that word over and over. What word did he use, Harry?”

It hardly seems like the most important part of the story, yet it's the only detail that matters to Louis in this moment. He needs to know what Harry was so scared of, what they're holding over his head, no matter how vague or veiled the threat may have seemed.

“Girlfriend,” Harry whispers, almost inaudibly, as he stands from the couch and goes to stare out his front window. “He said that, if things got any more obvious, they were going to find a nice girl for you to spend some time with. You know I hate the way they dictate your life already, right? The idea of them doing it even more made me fucking ill. I couldn't. I couldn't risk doing that to you.”

The silence hangs between them, palpable and thick and uncomfortable. Louis chases his thoughts, his emotions, through his mind and can't seem to settle on any one of them for more than a second. He wants to punch Harry in the neck and hug him until neither of them can breathe. 

“You are such an idiot,” he finally says. “There isn't any guarantee that anyone will link those songs back to me, right? And even if they do, it won't destroy my entire life, you sodding drama queen. But in order to protect me from something that might possibly be a pain in the ass to deal with, you put me through loads of certain abandonment issues and possible alcohol poisoning. You are literally the worst.” 

Harry does this thing with his eyes, this thing that has always chipped away at the very last vestiges of Louis' resolve. If he were holding a large hat in his hands, he would look exactly like Puss in Boots from _Shrek_. It's irritating in it's absolute adorableness and he's doing it right now. To stay mad at someone when he looks like the most cuddley kitten in the universe is impossible even for Louis, who prides himself on being able to hold a grudge particularly well, thank you.

“Look, it's not alright. You cannot lie to me, Harry, even if you think you're protecting me,” he says as firmly as he can while taking small steps to close the distance between them, both figuratively and literally. “I don't trust a lot of people anymore, but I have got to be able to trust you.” He steps into Harry's personal space, rests one hand on his waist, and tangles the other into Harry's hair. “And dropping mysterious hints to my bandmates is out of bounds as well. Poor Liam nearly did himself in trying to decipher your code.”

Harry's touch is hesitant, his fingers trembling as he sets his hand on the center of Louis' back. “Alright, but if they want to find you a girl-,”

“No,” Louis interrupts immediately. “I”m not interested.”

Harry rolls his eyes, finally relaxing into Louis' touch when he's sure they're not going to come to blows anymore. “I'm not sure that matters,” he tries again.

But Louis presses a finger to Harry's lips and smiles. It's his first genuine smile in more than a week and it feels strange on his face, but good. “You don't have to worry, okay? I mean, I already have someone who looks amazing in skinnies and likes to occasionally wear flowers in his hair. What more could a girl possibly give me?”

“It was _one_ time,” Harry protests with a groan. “For charity even!”

Pressing forward, Louis kisses Harry's chin and teases, “Yes, but I'll have the memories forever, love.”

“You're such a weirdo,” Harry says on a laugh, bending and leaning into Louis until their joined chest to knees. 

“But you love me,” Louis reminds him and it feels good to say it. It's not a joke, not a taunt or a tease like it's come to be between them. It means something this time. 

He knows it for sure when Harry nods and bumps his forehead against Louis'. “I do,” he agrees. His fingers trace the outline of Louis' new tattoo, each brush sending shockwaves of heat along Louis' spine. “Also I love this.”

“Do you?” Louis asks, rolling his hips forward and looping his arms around Harry's neck. 

“Yes,” Harry says with a nod, tilting Louis' face with one hand to press a soft kiss to the bow of his upper lip. “Very rugged,” he adds, the curve of his grin warm against Louis' mouth. “Very outdoorsman of you. Could add a rabbit, maybe a squirrel and some field mice here.”

Drowsy under the looping patterns Harry is drawing along the inside of elbow, Louis thinks briefly that, if Zayn can stop thinking of ways to murder Harry in his sleep now, they'll be great friends. He mumbles, “Have you quite finished?” against the column of Harry's throat.

“Hm, no I haven't,” Harry growls, dipping to kiss Louis' jaw as he continues. “I have loads of fish and insects to suggest yet.”

Though it breaks the quiet moment they've got going, Louis laughs explosively because he absolutely can't help it. Harry is dry and sarcastic and rarely funny, but when he doesn't mean to be, he's still occasionally hilarious. To be fair, being deprived of any piece of Harry for any length of time is rather exhausting. Even with all of the management drama Louis knows he'll still have to deal with eventually, he's more relaxed than he has been in ages so it's easy to be happy for now.

“You're dreadful,” he finally says when he's stopped laughing long enough to make words.

With a shake of his head, Harry pushes Louis, manhandling and twisting him until he falls back onto the couch.

“You love me,” Harry whispers against the tattoo on Louis' collarbone. “You love me so much, I'm almost embarrassed for you.”

Louis laughs again, wrapping his legs around Harry's until they're thoroughly tangled and tugging on the back of his hair until Harry sits back and meets Louis' eye. “I do,” he admits.

He'll have to be even more careful now, Louis knows. They've obviously not been as covert as he's been assuming they were. There will be hoops to jump through and stupid headaches that come along with committing to an actual relationship with Harry, not to mention the fact that he has no more a clue how to actually be in love than Harry does. It's bound to get more difficult from here, but at the moment, Louis can't be bothered to care in the slightest.


End file.
